


tasting future time on the tip of your tongue

by jehoney



Series: jughead and archie [1]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Childhood Friends, Gen, Homeless Jughead, M/M, Pancakes, Running Away, Statutory Rape Mention, Strained Friendships, Too Many Metaphors, and extended analogies, archie tries his best, dead dog, introspective, jug is an Emo but he has every right to be, jug moves in with the andrews', jug stays in riverdale for the food, jughead has a crisis at the train station, much needed hugs, rip Hot Dog u were a good boy, should I stay or should I go, that's the only solution here, this is now complete!, v brief mentions of child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-25 16:14:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9828749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehoney/pseuds/jehoney
Summary: Train stations are the best place to watch, permanent fixtures in a world of transience - caught in a stream of movement and travel but always forever stationary.jughead would leave, he swears, if there wasn't so much to stay for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mohritz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mohritz/gifts).



> i wrote fluff so i logically have to write angst. juggie is a big ball of angsty emo but he has every right to be and i love him - jarchie can be platonic/queerplatonic/romantic in this depending on ur interpretation but i might write another chapter if my severe phobia of commitment allows and it's probs gonna get romantic bc i'm a sucker
> 
> anyway ! idk how on earth american train networks work but i figure it's p universal, this happens just after the end of ep 4 
> 
> EDIT :: i did write another chapter...,.,. i wrote two more,,.,. and this is now complete. just fyi 
> 
> enjoy xoxox

Early morning train stations, Jughead has decided, are some of his favourite places. Riverdale's is way out west of town, with a single manned ticket office and bus shelter cover on the two platforms, but something about its tranquillity calms him. Something about standing on the track that could take him directly anywhere, thin dawn light pushing through branches, makes the static inside his head settle down for a while. And the people - Jug's always been a people watcher, has honed the art of observing without ever being noticed, he just wishes he could write down all of the narratives these strangers conjure without having to haul out his laptop. Maybe he should get a notebook.

Train stations are the best place to watch, permanent fixtures in a world of transience - caught in a stream of movement and travel but always forever stationary. There are three people on the platform today - four, if he counts himself, but he never does. A young woman, speaking quietly into her phone as if hushed by the stillness of the morning, dressed too coolly for the chill with thin, fair hair that plays on the wind. A poetic part of him offers that she's his inverse, all bright, open, clean lines as he huddles in on himself, bleeding over his edges like an ink blot and wearing his entire world on his back.

The second is an older woman, again taut against the cold (layers, he thinks, layers are the way to go, he's wearing five of them) and eyeing him like he's going to rob her, casting him sideways glances, knuckles tight on her purse. He bristles, but can hardly blame her - if the hiking rucksack full of his life he's sporting isn't enough, he knows how well the old bats in Riverdale can sniff out a South-sider, and no matter how badly he tries to scrub off his father's scent, serpent clings to him like an unwelcome odour. The next time she shoots him a glance, he returns it, pale eyes unflinching, and she's so startled she actually moves herself down the platform away from him. He allows himself a bitter smile; small pleasures, right?

The third and final passenger is no one of interest, a grey-haired, grey-suited, grey-skinned commuter, out of place with the idyllicism of _'Riverdale: The Town With Pep!'_ and better suited to the soulless blocks of the city, which is where Jughead is certain he's headed. His face is twisted in distaste, though through his ego Jug realises that that's less to do with him, and probably more likely his permanent expression.

So the four of them wait, in that instantaneous and spontaneous bond that forms between passengers at stations. Jughead hasn't bought his ticket yet, doesn't know what time the train will come, hell, isn't even sure where he's going or if he's going at all. He knows he can ride as far as the next city without paying, he and Jelly used to do it, though after that he's pretty clueless. This twists in him: no matter how external he seems to the town, he's even more uncomfortable anywhere outside of it. Riverdale is that old pair of shoes that never fit and give you blisters, but you can't bear to throw away.

He wants to leave. He wants to leave so badly that he's about to crawl out of his skin, especially now that there's no drive-in and everything's been mangled out of place since Jason's death, and Archie barely knows who he is anymore. Now that Jellybean's off who-knows-where, and he can feel his dad's eyes on the back of his neck even now, waiting for Jug to come crawling back so he can kick him in the stomach again. These old shoes are making his feet bleed, skin blistering and breaking until he's not sure if he can walk anymore.

So he lingers on the edge between the town and Elsewhere, the desolate platform tantalisingly close to some kind of escape.

He's startled out of his introspection by the bright tone of his text alert, and makes a note to himself to change it from the inanely cheery bell, before pulling it out of his jacket pocket and staring at the message on the screen.

_**archie:** can we talk?_

He switches off the screen and jams it back into his pocket, before two more chimes in quick succession force him to take it back out again.

_**archie:** please_

_**archie:** I'm really sorry I just need to talk to someone_

Jughead exhales sharply through his nose; he knows Archie is hurting, that he's cut up over Grundy leaving, but the dark bitterness knotted in him makes him want to ignore him, make him wait, make him beg for Jughead's attention, text by text.

Beautifully simple Archie, who can't see when he's been manipulated. He should be angry, Jug thinks, he wants to grab him by his shoulders and shake him until he hates her, Grundy. Until he realises how he's been hurt, because Jughead knows a thing or two about being hurt, and he hates Archie for still retaining some capacity for trust after what's happened. So maybe Archie shouldn't react like him, because the last thing Jug wants is for Riverdale's flame haired golden boy to end up burnt up inside.

He opens the message, and his fingertips are hovering over the keyboard trying to think up some excuse, before his screen flashes up _'_ _Call Incoming'_  with a two-year-old picture of Archie, scrawny and grinning, and he answers it through muscle memory.

“I know it’s early, I just needed to talk to someone.”

His voice is scratchy from sleep, and Jug remembers that it’s still before 9am on a Saturday, a mental image flashing to mind of Archie’s warm bed on a lazy morning.

“I’m awake, don’t worry about it”

There’s something like a muffled groan at the other end of the line, and Jughead can perfectly picture him rubbing at his face with the back of his hand.

“Actually – uh… shit. I don’t…,” there’s a sigh, “Can you come over?”

Grimacing, Jug remembers the 45-minute trudge to the station, and the ache that’s permeated his lower back from the rucksack and his cramped cot. Walking all the way back does not seem like a plausible option, especially given their current friendship status, and how close he is to the edge of escape. His silent dilemma seems to be obvious to Archie, damn his intuition.

“Let’s talk, Jug, can we just talk? You can come over and I’ll make pancakes like I used to before I screwed everything up,” he’s got a petulance in his voice, and Jug realises that he’s pleading, “I just really need someone—you. I need you.”

And Jughead’s not sure which fills him with more of a thrill, the opportunist railroad stretched out in front of him, or the feeling of being wanted so badly. He remembers the pancakes with a fondness he can only conjure for food, and suddenly an indefinite future without breakfasts like that, without Pop’s burgers even, makes his skin crawl. It’s definitely the food, he tells himself, as he sighs heavily and concedes.

“It’ll take me a while to get there.”

“Why? Where are you?”

For the briefest of moments, he considers telling Archie the truth, mending that bond only forged by sharing secrets, but for now, at least, he can’t bring himself to. Baby steps.

“Doesn’t matter,” he mutters, “Can you wait?”

The breathless, relieved sigh he gains from Archie’s end twists a smile from him, and he hoists the bag higher onto his shoulders.

“Yeah, I can wait,” and then “Thanks, Juggie.”

He hangs up the phone.

As he turns away from the tracks he takes a final glance at his station companions, a twinge of resentment at their ease of movement whilst he remains, tied to the town that raised him like some kind of emotionally stunted Pinocchio. The road back into town stretches grey and bare in front of him, leading him back to Archie, his pancakes, a brief promise of a good morning before he figures out what the hell he’s going to do next.

The road back to Riverdale stretches out in front of him, and Jughead takes it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which pancakes are eaten and metaphorical laundry comes close to being aired

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: the dog dies
> 
> not Vegas, but if anyone's read Afterlife with Archie they'll know that Hot Dog (Jug's dog) gets hit by a car and he gets him magically revived and causes a zombie apocalypse BUT ANYWAY i thought that was a good way to explain Hot Dog's absence in the show
> 
> thank you so much for the lovely comments, i love writing this angsty boi and i know these chapters are short but it's all my pathetic attention span can handle
> 
> enjoy ch 2 !! x

Archie’s house is a magazine Americana affair, much like the rest of the town, which only serves to heighten the ache of nostalgia in the pit of Jughead’s stomach as he approaches it. There’s the drainpipe he used to scale, regardless of how many times Fred insisted he was welcome through the front door, the same lounge curtains he spilled orange juice on, and if he cranes his neck (which is nigh on impossible with this goddamn bag) he can even spy their treehouse, as much Jughead’s as it is Archie’s, constructed over a scrapbook childhood summer.

He still hasn’t figured out what to do with his bag; he can’t very well show up, invited for breakfast but armed to stay for life. There was a possibility of leaving it at Pop’s, but he doesn’t want to put that on him and besides, he owes him enough already, namely a tab as long as his arm. A small, distant voice, the voice of thirteen-year-old, best-friends-with-Archie Jughead offers that maybe he shouldn’t lie to him, he should tell him the truth and trust someone for once, but he brushes it aside, and rests his eyes instead on the Andrews’ garage, way around the side of the house. It’s locked up for the autumn, Jug knows that much, Fred’s ‘project car’ tucked away safely inside to resume being operated on when the weather picks up again and he has the time to devote to it. And Jug’s always been decent at jimmying locks.

He’s not going to steal anything, he tells himself, Archie hasn’t dropped that low on his social ranking (he’s pretty much the only one on there, save Pop, Jelly and, recently, Betty and Veronica) and he still has some semblance of moral compass. He’s just going to tuck away his conspicuous bag, replace it with the more reasonably sized one he uses for school, and knock on the door.

With the help of several safety pins and a looming sense of paranoia (he’s in a neighbourhood watch area, for god’s sake, and Alice Cooper lives next door) he’s managed it, slipped the bag inside and is ready to present himself as Someone Who Utterly and Completely Has Their Life Together.

When Archie opens the door, still in his gym shirt and flannel pyjama bottoms, he’s got such a familiar warmth rolling off him that Jug wants nothing more than to hug him, solid and tactile. Instead, he hovers, mud-scuffed boots on the threshold, waiting to be invited in like some kind of social vampire. And Archie, usually fortunately in tune with how Jug’s personal space works, takes this a ‘keep your distance’ day, when all Jug really wants, now that he’s here, is the opposite.

“Come in, Jug.”

He takes off his shoes and leaves them in the hall with his bag, following through to the kitchen and trying to ignore the assault of memories that greet him. The dent in the wall from when they were tearing through the house and Archie’s head made painful contact with it, and Vegas, bounding up to meet him and reminding him so much of Hot Dog that a lump rises up in his throat.

“Dad left for work ten minutes ago, he wanted to stick around to say hi,” Archie says, breaking the eggs into a bowl for the pancakes while Jug takes a seat at the table, “Your shoes were filthy, though. Where were you, man?”

Jughead shrugs, and ruffles a hand through Vegas’ fur.

“I went for a walk, up by the river,” Lying comes frighteningly easily, “To clear my head. What did you want to talk about?”

And luckily, Archie is all too happy to change the subject. He talks as he cooks, the two growing stacks of pancakes making Jug’s mouth water; he’s been trying to economise these past few months, the last time he had pancakes was in June, and being back here is like slipping into a warm bath. Archie talks about Grundy, about how he knows he shouldn’t miss her but he does, about how she didn’t even see him one last time before she left, and Jughead wants to yell at him that that just shows what kind of a devious bitch she was, but he knows that what Archie needs right now is breakfast pancakes and a friend who can listen. Unfortunately, he’s not too good at the latter.

“Jug? Are you even listening?” Archie snaps as he sets down the plate in front of him, and Jug takes a bite of pancake before replying.

“Of course.”

“You just haven’t said anything.”

When he’s sat across from him like this, Jug can see the shadows under his eyes, the vulnerability and desperation for someone to tell him what to do, how he should feel.

“I really don’t know what you expect me to say,” Jug’s scathing before he can stop himself, speaking around a mouthful, “’Sorry your illegal relationship with the music teacher didn’t work out the way you dreamed’? ‘Sorry she had to leave before she was convicted of statutory rape’?”

There’s something so wounded in Archie’s eyes that he immediately regrets it.

“What the fuck is your problem, lately?” the boy across from him asks, harshly, “How many times do I need to apologise?

Slowly, Jughead pushes his plate away from him and brings his hands into his lap, picking at his cuticles.

“Sorry, Arch, I’m just...”

The words don’t come. They’re lodged somewhere around his sternum, jagged and painful and his thirteen-year-old self is shouting at him, now, to tell him, tell him everything. All he can do is stare at his hands, eyes burning and Archie watching him with something that he really hopes isn’t pity or he might just be forced to walk out right now. He’s amazed at himself, genuinely, for how much of a turn this conversation has taken from being all about Archie to suddenly, wonderfully, all about him. His selfishness makes him sick.

“What is it?”

The softness of tone is halfway between making Jug want to bristle and get the hell out, or completely break down in Archie Andrews’ kitchen, all dignity abandoned. Because the Archie that watches him now is the same one that asked the same question the first time he came into school with a bruised face, the same one who knew, instantly, the morning after Hot Dog was hit by that car and Jug refused to meet his eye in the corridor.

Thirteen-year-old Archie watches thirteen-year-old Jughead across the table, and suddenly he doesn’t want to lie anymore.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the awaited resolution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this naturally made itself a neat little three-parter, thank you so much for all your lovely words, this is the end of the road (until i inevitably write another one) !
> 
> i hope i satisfy you all with this conclusion...
> 
> enjoy ! x

He starts haltingly, but as he speaks the words start tumbling out, like some frozen waterfall that's been thawed back to life.

He starts with Jellybean leaving, back in May, when dad lost the house after he lost the job and thrust all of his anger on the two of them. How he gets the occasional text from her so he knows she's safe, but she won't tell him where she is, because she knows he'll try and find her. He tells about Dad and him moving in with the Serpents, in their squalid flats with ready supply of whatever you want, whenever you want it, and after a drunken fight, he tells Archie, how he packed up and left. He tells him about his drive in set up, how it was actually a pretty sweet gig, even if it did mean damp and having to sneak into school to use the showers, and when they shut the water off for summer vacation, the gym. He tells him about how he doesn't want Fred to feel guilty, he's doing his job, only now he's got nowhere to go and he can feel his voice break on the last few words like the sound of ice cracking.

And all the time he tells him this he can't bring himself to meet Archie's eyes, knowing that they'll be soft and kind like always; he’s the fucking puppy dog, and Jug's the stray cat wandering in to eat his food and beg attention. He stares at his hands instead -  he's picked at the skin around his left thumb until it bleeds -  and he waits for Archie to respond.

"Where are your things?"

Jug looks up in surprise, to be greeted with Archie's expression, still gentle but with a kind of steely resolve. He tries to think of an excuse, then remembers that he's being honest.

"I... I hid them in your garage."

Archie, the sunshine boy, actually chuckles, standing up from the table, and Jughead notices for the millionth time how tall he's gotten over the summer.

"Well let's bring them up to the spare room."

Jughead knows what he’s offering, and the somewhat diminishing, stubborn, proud side of him still wants to push Archie away and refuse his help, but he finds himself standing up anyway, stepping out from behind the breakfast table.

They face each other, unsure, until suddenly Archie pulls him into a tight hug, and Jug’s never been so grateful for Archie’s impulse because he doesn’t think he could’ve asked for this. The tension sags out of his body and he leans on him, physically and emotionally, hyper aware of his unwashed jacket and how good the human contact feels. Archie’s the only one he’s ever felt this comfortable with, Jelly excluded, and after months living in his cloud of isolation he’s hungry for touch, so he breathes in every inch of the redhead’s early morning light.

“I’ve missed you, man.” he mumbles into Archie’s shoulder.

“I’ve missed you too.”

 

* * *

 

When Fred Andrews comes home at 5pm to find his son and Forsythe Pendleton Jones III sprawled on the couch and engrossed in a game of _Dragoncide VII_ , he wonders if he’s stepped back in time by a year.

They pause the game once they realise his presence in the doorway, and Archie quietly explains the situation whilst Jughead watches from where he’s sat, hat jammed over his ears, fiddling with the controller.

In all honesty, Fred couldn’t be happier to see them talking again, let alone having Jughead staying with them. He knows Jughead’s father, and despite his actions, or probably because of them, he knows he’s a good kid. Besides, there’s only so much advice a man can give his son as he stands in as a sorry replacement for a lost friend.

And Jughead slots right into their life, like he’d never been gone. Fred notices the weight he’s lost, so they dine on Pop’s takeout for a whole week, a welcome home that leaves the man envious of teenage boys’ metabolisms.

Archie helps Jug put up the posters he lifted from the drive-in on the walls of the spare room, and though Fred says he’s not allowed to paint it black ( _yet_ , give him time), a home forms around him, filling in some of the cracks that he thought were going to splinter him apart. Jellybean even lets him Skype her; he has to keep back undignified tears, and she calls him a sap, and maybe he is, because living with Archie has made him soft, but being made of stone was getting boring.

The nights get difficult, sometimes. He can sleep like a log through an algebra class, but lying awake staring at the ceiling seems to be all he can manage. At least, before, he slept, if not only because of the sheer exhaustion brought on by dealing with Life Itself. Now, he sneaks into Archie’s room and they top and tail like kids again, the novelty of the eternal sleepover never seeming to get old. And sometimes, when Jug feels the cracks inside him pulling apart, or Archie’s feeling dull and faded, they don’t bother with the top and tail, but fit themselves together and hold on the only way they know how.

And on these nights, Jughead thinks, things might be okay after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u for reading my lil jellybeans xoxoxoxox

**Author's Note:**

> title is from 'the map woman' by carol ann duffy - one of my fave poems


End file.
